


Voice

by Anuna



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Forgiving, Introspection, Romance, also i referenced the "i think i'll throw up" line, ambivalent feelings, canon compliant abuse in past, skye working out her various feelings about ward, there's also sexy shower time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1903590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She has his voice ingrained in her, like a never ending recording of instructions, patient reminders to be careful. Everything he taught her, every reaction he wrote into her remained written down with the sound of his voice. So useless to fight against it, when it's a part of her.</i> </p><p>A companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1802308">Reflection</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Voice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainSummerDay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSummerDay/gifts).



> This one presents Skye's point of view through the events of "Reflection" and after; as I've been thinking about her a lot, and needed a fic in which their mutual wounds are healed. (And they share a shower. Shared showers are awesome.)
> 
> I hope you like!

_Thus with my lips have I denounced you, while my heart, bleeding within me, called you tender names. - Khalil Gibran_

*

It's so strange, not hearing his voice. 

He never talked much in the first place, and he talked even less when he returned. Before, the moments he talked the most were their training sessions. She has his voice ingrained in her, like a never ending recording of instructions, patient reminders to be careful, to think of every possible variable before throwing herself into equation. Everything he taught her, every reaction he wrote into her remained written down with the sound of his voice. It plays inside her mind without prompting, without her wanting to. So useless to fight against it, when it's a part of her. 

And now he doesn't have it any more. 

He has wings, though. How ridiculous is that? How insane is Fitz when he lets Ward grab him with his teeth and drop him on his back – and then take off, sky high? _What if he drops you, or you fall, or if something else happens_ , she asked, and Fitz looked at her with more understanding she was comfortable with and finally smiled. 

“He won't.”

And he doesn't. Each time Fitz returns with a bigger smile on his face. Jemma gets to fuss over him, pretending to measure and photograph stuff, when it's mostly her mother henning him. (Skye realizes that he always secretly loved that). Trip goes to him and just talks. Ward growls, grumbles, yawns and makes a whole lot of different sounds and it seems like they're having a conversation. 

Coulson has monologues. Skye can't bring herself to listen in, but she sees them – A. C. talking and Ward listening, as serious as dragon can be. And May sits next to him. She looks as if she meditates, and the thing is, they're claiming him back, all of them, as much as its possible. Only she can't. 

She tries not to stare at him for two days after her own monologue, observing how he peers at his own image reflected on the water of the lake. She can see the physical effort in his muscles, in his curled wings, she can see the effort it takes to even try. It hurts for reasons she's not ready to name. 

She watches this for two days and she can't stand to see it any more. 

She steps in front of him with more confidence she possesses and looks up, trying not to be overwhelmed by his looks or height. ( _Yeah, right. Good luck with that, Skye._ ) But she isn't a coward, or a quitter, and she doesn't curl up in a ball or run. 

“So. When are you going to take me for a flight?” 

He makes a noise that sounds almost amused and turns his head to the side, a reminder of his human annoyance. She looks at him – if she were Fitz, or Jemma, he'd be lifting her onto his back by now, but he's not moving. 

“What? I don't get a ride? That's extremely uncool, you know,” she says. He shifts his weight, reminding her less of a dragon and more of a swan and just looks at her, all royal in his golden - brown glow. It's a bit like teasing a smile out of him for the first time, like approaching that tall and strong wall of muscle and confidence that seemed unshakable back then. 

“Oh, come on Ward,” she says, and something slips into her tone that makes him focus on her. Longing, she thinks, longing for those past times and board games and conversations, for him wrapping her fists so she wouldn't hurt herself; holding her punching bag and telling her what to do. She'd be happy to have someone tell her what to do now. There's no more Ward, no more her SO and his voice and as she reaches out with her hand to touch the scales on his leg – carefully, not to startle him – she realizes that she's _grieving_. Because she lost him. Or rather, she lost the person she thought she knew, and got a sorrowful, guilt ridden stranger instead. “Ward,” she says softly. And then after a moment of quiet, she adds “please,” and it's hard, it's the hardest thing she ever said to him, ever admitted herself. That she wants him back, somehow, in some way, but she still doesn't know how. Or if its even possible. The dragon looks at her with this complete understanding, with deep and familiar brown in his eyes of gold, before he bends his head and gently picks her up. 

*

Flying on a dragon's back isn't like flying inside the plane or even inside Lola. There's nothing to tie her down and keep her safe, nothing between her and the rest of the sky. The only thing she has and count upon is the dragon and even as her hands hold on desperately, there's a part of her mind (that she doesn't want to listen to) telling her that he will never let her fall. 

*

She's edgy and nervous and cannot sleep, and it doesn't make sense because nothing bad has happened in days (save from Ward turning into a huge ass dragon). She can't find a place for herself to sit, so she tries to train. The punching bag only manages to frustrate her, bouncing around her face like it's dodging her attempts to vent. The sound of laughter coming from outside doesn't help. When she ventures upstairs she hears voices – Jemma and Fitz – and it's not so much that they're talking, but the way they sound. 

“... and the last thing you need is to catch a cold -”

“I won't catch a cold, Jemma -”

“- or get pneumonia -”

“I _won't_ get pneumonia -”

“And seriously, it's not like he's abandoned, Fitz, he knows where we are, and if he needs us -”

“If he needs us? Really? What is he supposed to do? Call?”

“But Fitz, he's not alone -”

“Yes he is, Jemma,” Fitz says, and now his voice is turning strained, his breathing labored. “What do you think survival school was about? Since he was, what, sixteen? It doesn't matter where the plane is, I won't let it happen again, I won't let him wake up and be all alone without roof -”

“Fitz,” Skye says, realizing that her hands are shaking, that she has to hold onto the nearest chair, that her voice catches so audibly. “What -?”

Unexpectedly, his face hardens. 

“No,” Fitz says. “Ask him yourself. He should tell you. Not I.”

The heat that coils inside of her is irrational and angry and it's too much. Too much. She can't bear it any more. “Why are you defending him?” she says before she can stop herself and then nobody can stop the rest. “Did you forget what he's done to all of us? To you?” she gestures to the crutch Fitz is leaning on as her insides shake. She is angry but now her anger is a burden instead of strength, and she wants them to yell back at her, to call her wrong, to explain. But Jemma only looks hurt and Fitz looks sad and shuts down. “Why are you protecting him??”

“Because I do,” Fitz says quietly. “Because he needs me to.”

*

When Ward hurls himself down from the sky to defend them, it almost feels like grabbing his kevlar vest and letting him take her hand and lead her back to safety. When Hydra men shoot him with a missile launcher she screams, but he just keeps on fighting like he always does. 

Later, as Simmons and Trip patch him up (his blood looks so _human_ ), Skye feels the acrid taste in the back of her throat as she tries not to think about what Fitz said. She watches Ward as he tries to make himself as small as possible. He might look like an animal but she can see the man sitting shirtless in front of Jemma in a lab, not wincing and not complaining and saying _understood_ at every advice or direction given. 

That night she sneaks in Coulson's office and steals for the first time since the Rising Tide. The file is smaller than she expects, grades and reports and observations, all commending Ward's specialist skills, describing him in action. There are psychological evaluations which are probably fake and medical records that aren't. Four gunshot wounds over six years, all medically treated in SHIELD facilities, since they were received on missions. 

The handwriting catches her eye. Ward is an encyclopedia of injuries. 

_X rays show healed breaks in left tibia, left fibula. Fractured and healed ribs, back, both sides. Healed breaks in right humerus and right clavicle. Right fibula, spiral fracture, healed. Fractured scapula. Subject claims not remembering some of the breaks._

Skye adds two more gunshot wounds, broken ribs and a hairline fracture to the cheekbone to the list, closing the file and returning it where it's been. Instead of sleep, her head chases the answers that seem almost within her reach. 

*

Ward turns into human when he learns how to love himself as a dragon. 

She looks at him when he doesn't see it, searching for something different about him, some change visible to her eye, but nothing is there. Being around him makes the air feel thick and her chest so tight as words clog up her throat and refuse to leave. He smiles at her sometimes, in a way that tells her he expects nothing in return and then she's left fighting for air, tampering with the pain protesting inside of her. 

And it's like she doesn't how to talk to him any more. Now that she lets herself look, she realizes he's a lot like the man she met at the very beginning, only she has seen his worst, just as she has seen his best. And that’s when she remembers the dragon, huge and scary and beautiful. Frightening and amazing. A man she could both love and hate and is afraid to take a step in either direction.

*

She finds her proof when she least expects it. 

They're at the base and she's looking for Fitz. Someone tells her he's at the shooting range. She expects to find him bickering with either Trip or Ward or both about the new guns or some other gadget – what she doesn't expect is Fitz with a gun and Ward giving him a lesson at taking aim. 

She intends to ask them what they're doing - _why_ they're doing it – but she's caught off guard with Ward's patience, with the way he explains how something should be done, and how he positions Fitz's hands, arms, shoulders. How he encourages. For a moment he's wrapping her wrists again, telling her to keep her hands up. 

She comes closer before she can think better of it and leave. Ward's shirt doesn't have long sleeves and that's when it catches her eye – a cut that's still red and not properly healed at the place where missile grazed the dragon's leg. Skye pauses like she sees a physical evidence of damage for the first time, a cut that will leave a scar. (Another one.) Jemma's voice rings in her head – the cheer and the scientific fascination with wonders of nature, as she explains, 

_if not for something as simple as vitamin C, all of our scars would reopen, which means once you cut yourself you're never truly healed._

In her memory, Jemma gives her a bright smile. Skye remembers smiling in return. In front of her two men realize she's there. And they smile at her too. 

Skye stares at Ward's arm. 

At his cheek. 

Thinks of his ribs. Of his arms and clavicle, and the doctor's handwriting inside his file. Remembers how he returned to the Providence base. 

_Fascinating, isn't it?_ Jemma asks cheerfully in her mind. 

“Skye?” Ward asks. The smile precariously stretching his lips falls. She swallows. 

“I have to – have to – uh – go and find something.”

*

It takes less than ten minutes of Internet searches. (It takes so little and it's always been there right in front of her face and she didn't see it. She didn't see it. No, she did, but she didn't know what she was seeing.) She remembers that specific phrase, _spiral fracture_ , and stares at it. 

_Injuries consistent with shaking or hitting a child can have consequences in fractured or broken bones; such as skull fractures, fractured ribs, especially in the back, fractured scapula and sternum._

She wants to know if anyone noticed and something is telling her the answer is negative. She doesn't know what scapula is. Quick search gives her the answer. The drawing of a human skeleton looks like it's laughing. She tries to drown Ward's smile out of her mind. Did he ever tell anyone? Did he try to tell her but she never truly listened? (How do you still laugh after surviving that?)

She abandons her laptop, showers and changes and goes to bed feeling clammy, feeling like the air around her is too thick and suffocating. And she stares at the ceiling, remembers calling him a robot, remembers him not knowing how to accept a compliment, his face awkward and unaccustomed to something as simple as a smile.

Remembers him telling her about being trained to be the whole solution. The empty water bottle and three of them in the van, looking for Akela Amador. The way he told her he is not a good man. Fitz's voice mentioning survival school. Suddenly things start to slide together, start to mix in her head and fit, making sense, terrible sense. The word isolation makes her sit up. And then Ward's voice inside her mind telling her about a bad seed. 

_It's not a SHIELD term, Ward._

Her heart rate doubles. 

How isolated does someone have to be, not to know that bad seed is just a term?

_Survival school.... I'm a survivor._

Skye throws her covers away and runs for the bathroom, barely reaching it before she has to throw up. 

*

After that she can't look at him the same way as before. He's not her SO, and he's not the traitor, he's not the evil monster, none of those fit any more. Nothing feels familiar, but his voice fits right under her skin. It's like there's nothing familiar to hold onto, and yet when she looks at him, he feels like everything that's good and safe about the world. 

And he's not. He's lost. He's struggling. He's trying to fix himself and the mess he's made. He makes mistakes and someone snaps. (Sometimes she snaps). And then he gives her that look, that one look which begs to be small and not intruding, just really, really small and not disturb anyone. 

But he can't be small. And things can't be un-seen and he can't be invisible. 

Because when you cut yourself, you never truly heal. 

*

Her head hurts after spending hours in front of the screen, wrestling with encrypted data and making only minimal progress. She tells herself to take a break ( _always keep in mind what the mission requires and spend your energy accordingly_ ). His voice accompanies her towards the common area, despite her attempts to shake off his advices. She can't take a rest. This needs to be done. ( _You will be of no use to a team, or yourself, if you wear yourself out_.)

Fuck your rationality, Ward, she thinks and and opens the door to the common room. Laughter splashes against her like fresh water. 

It's Ward, laughing. Not too loudly and not too long, but he's laughing with Trip and Simmons and Fitz. 

Between Ward and Trip on a table the Battleship. 

It hurts. It shouldn't. But it hurts. They laugh, and it hurts. And before Trip can tell her something nice, before Jemma can invite her to join them, she runs away. 

*

She dreams about the dragon – tall, long; huge and beautiful. Glorious in his subdued golden glow. She dreams about men wearing black, shooting and throwing nets at the dragon until the proud head is bowed down, until powerful wings are tied, until the mighty beast is tied down so it doesn't cannot move. 

Until his voice is gone.

Then she wakes up screaming.

*

She's being an idiot. She's arguing with his voice in her head when she goes out for a run that evening, even though the sky looks like it might fall apart and fall down onto earth. She will not listen to him, she will not, she will _not_. Half an hour later she's back inside the base soaked to her skin and cold.

Ward's quarters are next to Trip's, ground floor, close. She needs to yell at him. She needs to tell him that she can't take this any more. She needs to tell him that scars can fall apart at any time, and that she's barely holding herself together, and that she can't listen to his voice inside her head and not know who he is. 

(Who he is to her. )

It's not locked. (He's not allowed to lock himself in.)

He's not there. _He's not there._ Her heart startles but then she hears a shower running, and thinks _Oh God_ , and _He's safe_ , and it feels like her strength and will to hold herself up right fall apart. She wants to run and she wants to curl up right here, and she wants to scream and let it all out. 

But she's cold. And shaking. And behind that door, there's a warm shower and there's _him_. 

And she wants. She _wants_. 

He's startled when she walks in, soaking wet and probably looking horrible. He's confused and then worried and not for a moment protesting at her interruption of his privacy; he just stands there, under his own shower, most of his body hidden behind the steam. 

“Skye?” he says. It's like the first warm thing she's felt in ages, the way he says her name; and the way he does, the way it sounds reminds her that it was always safe on his lips. Her body shivers because it's protesting the cold, because it wants to feel warm and alive again. Her fingers shake as she struggles against the wet layers of fabric stuck to her skin and he just watches as she gets rid of it all, and the situation is ridiculous, it's bizarre, both of them soaked and now naked and looking at each other like a bomb might go off. 

He moves like he's about to say something and she's afraid he'll tell her to go. If he does, if he rejects her, she realizes she won't be able to put up any fight. She needs him so badly and selfishly not to tell her to leave, so she stumbles across the bathroom tiles and steps inside the shower, her hands around her middle, her entire body shaking. 

“Skye,” he says again and it does something to her, affects her more than warmth of the water. “What happened?”

“I'm cold,” she says like it's explanation, but it seems to be enough of an explanation for him. And she can barely look at him and face what's in front of her. No more pretenses, no more masks, nothing but him, and nothing but her. There's certain brutality about their nakedness, the fact that nothing can be concealed any more. 

“I can – do you want me to -?”

She shakes her head and reaches out, and the moment she removes her arm from her middle she's aware that he's staring and she looks down at her own body. He's never seen her scars. 

Just as she's never truly seen his. 

She steps closer. The water and the steam make it hard to see, but there's a fine, thin line on his right cheek, and, she expects, a round scar just above his heart. And then there are more beneath, hidden as deep as his bones. That's the thing about Ward – he always looked so gorgeous, so perfect, always seemed an epitome of an agent nothing could shake. What could _possibly_ hurt a man like him? (She trusted him so completely.) Ho would even think anything could hurt him at all?

How could she fail him so badly? 

She watches him as he adjusts the water and the spray and steps just a little bit closer. His fingers linger near her face, but she says nothing and doesn't move, so she wouldn't startle him. He moves her hair away, caresses her cheek. She wants to melt into his hand. 

“What happened?” he asks again, and seems to resume what he's been doing, soaps his hands and then hands her the bar that's making her skin itchy and dry for months now. She's staring uselessly at the soap when he takes it from her. His hands on hers are gentle, steady, soaping her fingers and palms. It feels so familiar and sends her back to a better time, when it was just them and a punching bag and her greatest problem in the world were push ups he made her do. And as his hands move, over her wrists, up her arms and he gets closer, the knots inside of her seem to loosen. 

She can't hold it all inside her any more. 

“I went for a run,” she says. “You said I shouldn't and I disagreed and went.” 

His hands pause. She looks up, suddenly terrified that he will leave. 

“When did I say that?” he asks, confused. 

She shakes her head. Her throat closes, and it's almost impossible to speak. “It... it's just something you would say. And it sounded like your voice and -” she chokes. Then she looks up, feeling like all those things she's holding inside might tear her apart. When she speaks her voice is full of tears. “And I can't do it any more, Ward, I can't fight with you.”

He bows his head, reminding her so much of his dragon self and how he almost didn't dare looking at her. His hand lingers above her shoulder when she connects their fingertips. Her hands are smaller than his, but equally strong. Their fingers fold together and it feels like a perfect fit. Skye looks up at him, wordlessly pleading, but she isn't sure for what. 

She takes the soap from him instead, focusing on her hands, on his chest right there in front of her and wonders if she can wash it all off; everything they've been through and everything they put each other through; every bad word and every bad deed. Can it even be done? He lets her use the soap on him, watches as she splays her palms against his chest, looks at her when she works her hands over his shoulders. She'd never seen him naked before but despite that every detail feels familiar, every line and curve and the sound of his breath. How would it not, when his voice is permanently etched in her mind? She takes the shower in her hand to wash the soap off him and he lets her. She can carry his voice, either as an angry brand or as a song. 

She washes his face too, standing on her tiptoes and touching his eyelids. When her thumb lingers on his lips he kisses it, long, and opens his eyes to look at her. The water is warm, but the way she feels when he holds her palm open and kisses it is indefinitely warmer, and then when he moves away she nearly whimpers at the loss. 

“Let me do this,” he says, taking the shower from her to wash out her hair. The thing is, she didn't even think about it after getting soaked, but he does his task with care and makes sure every long strand is washed clean. When his fingers curl around the base of her neck she feels a pang of pain and rush of need, thankful for his lips finally meeting hers. Everything forgotten she rises on her toes to meet him, to wrap her arms around his neck and press herself against him. And they kiss. They _kiss_ , and kiss and kiss again, and he holds her so carefully, so mindful of where he touches her even as he grows hard right against her body. She moves, pulls him closer, takes his hand in hers to put it right over her breast. He breaks the kiss and stares at his fingers and the gentle swell of her body underneath his hand.

“You're sure?”

“Yes,” she breathes. “Please.”

It's like the word makes him come alive, finally, as strong as she knows he is. He pulls her close and kisses her, tilts her face up and pushes her against the shower wall. This, she thinks, this; when she can finally feel the need in the tension of his muscles. _This_. She wraps her arms around him, drags her lips along his neck, brands a kiss right above his heart, where she knows a scar should be. 

The water starts to grow colder then. 

“Skye -” he starts, breathing ragged. She's holding onto him and doesn't want to let go. 

“Let's – let's dry up. And then -” she kisses him once more, her lips open as an invite. He parts them with his tongue and takes her breath away.

She's mindful not to slip on floor tiles and lets him dry her hair and skin and kiss her. She does the same to him, and now she can see it – the scar like crescent moon, right at her eye level. The one that nearly stopped his heart. This time he realizes what she's looking at. 

“I'm so sorry,” she says when his hands cradle her face. 

“It's not you who should apologize,” he says and she kisses him just to stop him, because he's done it, thousand times already; he's done it wordlessly, with every movement and every glance in her direction he didn't dare taking. And then she's dragging him to his own bed and pushing him down, crawling over him as he sits against the headboard. His hands on her hips keep her steady. The pain of him entering her is a shock, but nothing with them is easy, it never was. 

“Shh,” he says and kisses her, keeps her in place as he touches places – the curve of her jaw, the hollow of her neck, whispers to her as he goes.

“Don't go,” she says, even when she doesn't know why. He shakes his head and kisses her, tugs at her lower lip. 

“No,” he says, kissing up along her neck. It feels like his voice slips through every pore of her skin. He moves slowly and it already feels so much better. She pulls him closer. “Not going anywhere.”

She rolls her hips and draws a groan from him, feels his teeth on her shoulder, his fingers on her back; sweeps her tongue across his ear to make him shudder. 

“Missed you,” she says as he moves the curtain of her hair away and brands her with kisses anywhere he can reach. 

“Missed you more,” he says, hands against her breasts. He moves steadily and keeps her above him, kisses her like she's the only thing in the world, like nothing beyond her exists. 

“Grant,” she says. She hasn't said his name in so long, _so long_. They're reaching the point of desperation, holding blindly onto each other. “Please.”

“Anything,” he breathes. And she opens her eyes and looks at him as they move and chase the release, and the faint promise of calm beyond it. His eyes are dark, so dark, but she thinks she can see gold in the depths, like a single light within completely darkened space. 

“I need to hear you,” she says. “I need to hear you.”

And he does it for her – whispers and pleads and promises, cries out as he shatters against her. Wraps her in the sound of his voice and the warmth of his body, stretches above her. Whispers in her ear and enters her with fingers and then she's losing threads, connections, and it's like everything ceases while pressure within her builds. And then she opens her eyes and he's there, the face she _knows_. 

And she knows that all the pain is useless, that hate is a too heavy baggage, that past can tear her present apart. And she knows that she can't hold onto any of it any more, can't hate him and love him at the same time. 

And then, before she kisses him she knows that she's forgiven him long time ago, and that she can't deny it any more. 

He whispers to her and she lets go.


End file.
